


12

by springsdandelion (writergirlie)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/springsdandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her daughter's twelfth birthday, Katniss takes her hunting for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12

**Author's Note:**

> I love exploring Katniss as a mother. Given everything she went through, I think she'd love her children fiercely, but have a hard time balancing that love with the sheer terror she feels at losing them. There's such a wealth of story there.

On the morning of her twelfth birthday, I wake up with a scream trapped in my throat. I am avox-mute, just as I had been in that horrible moment I saw her father’s blood splatter all over the tiles of that garish Capitol studio, helpless to do anything but try in vain to reach for him through the television as his cries of agony pierced my ears.

 

Peeta has to bring me back from the brink, holding me to him, rocking me gently and whispering soothing words into my ear that don’t make sense at first, until the fog in my brain slowly begins to dissipate. The images from last night are cagey and elusive, just out of reach from my outstretched hands, but they still leave a vague sense of panic I can’t quite place, nor shake, a vice that remains clenched around my heart. Strangling it. I tremble like mad in Peeta’s arms, unable to contain my terror, my back slick with cold sweat and goose bumps spreading across the entire surface of my skin. And as I try to coax air back into my resisting lungs, I remember.

 

Today is the day our daughter is old enough to be reaped.

 

“There are no more Hunger Games,” Peeta murmurs. The words reverberate on my temple as he presses his lips onto my forehead and tightens his grip on me.

 

It takes me a few seconds for me to realize that he is saying this as much for his own benefit as he is for mine, that he’s feeling the same visceral fear that’s rooted itself deep in the pit of my stomach and won’t let up. And as we cling to each other in the pre-dawn darkness, I begin to recite.

 

“You giving me bread… Madge giving me the pin… Your father giving me the cookies… Finnick saving your life…”

 

Soon, his voice joins mine, and together, we finish the list.

 

* * *

 

Peeta’s cake is a thing of beauty. Myriad flowers and birds, magnificently sculpted out of smooth fondant, and right in the center, a lone primrose, the most breathtaking detail of all. The flower that gives the girl her middle name. The children are reluctant at first to let their father cut into his masterpiece; it takes a lot of coaxing from Haymitch before they finally relent, and soon, they’re begging us for seconds before either of them have even finished their first piece. When they’ve had their fill—Haymitch sneaks them each a third slice when we’re not looking and doesn’t bother to deny it when the frosting on his fingers implicate him—I pull my daughter aside.

 

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” I tell her.

 

Her eyes go big. “You do??”

 

“I laid an outfit on your bed,” I say. “Go take a look.”

 

Her mouth curves into a smile as she takes in a gush of air, raising herself up on her toes, as though she’s about to take flight.  “What’s it for?”

 

I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m taking you hunting today.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. You’re old enough now.”

 

She’s been helping Peeta in the kitchen since she was old enough to beat an egg, shadowing him eagerly and picking up the finer points of kneading and folding and icing along the way. She’s managed to turn out impressive pastries herself—they’ve become her specialty—but she’s never gone with me into the woods. After all these years, hunting is still a solitary activity for me, a chance for me to lose myself among the trees and let the steady rhythm of my breath guide me to my prey. There’s no one else to lead me, no one else to watch my back, no one else to rely on. Not since losing Gale as a hunting partner all those years ago have I sought the company of another out there. But neither have I wanted to.

 

Until now. Until today.

 

When I go up to check on her, the door to her room is open a tiny crack. I see her through the gap, running a hand down the sleeve of the new hunting jacket Peeta and I have gotten her. It fits her perfectly, and I’m unprepared for the surge of emotion that overtakes me at the sight of her wearing it. She’s examining her reflection in the mirror, turning from side to side to inspect herself from different angles, when she spots me standing at the door, and she turns around at once and runs over to me. When she reaches me, she throws her arms around my waist with such enthusiasm that she nearly knocks both of us over.

 

“Oh Mom… I love it!”

 

I laugh and bring my hands up to her face to cradle it. “It looks wonderful on you,” I say. “It’ll take a while to break in, but pretty soon, it’ll feel like a second skin.”

 

She starts to flex her arms, bending them at the elbows, making the leather creak, and she laughs at the sound.

 

“Are you ready to go?”

 

“Almost,” she says, then she looks up at me again. “Will you braid my hair?”

 

I smile. “Of course.”

 

After we’ve made our way downstairs again, Peeta gives us both a kiss goodbye, telling us that he’ll have a fresh loaf of walnut-and-raisin bread waiting for us when we get back. The boy makes a special request for deer just as we’re about to head out the door, but settles for quail when I tell him it’s not quite deer season yet.

 

“Maybe we’ll bring you back two, if I can manage to shoot one today,” his sister tells him.

 

“Make sure you shoot straight, then.”

 

I laugh and bend down to give him a kiss, telling him that it won’t be long before he’s joining us on these hunting trips, too. At first he’s excited, but then looks torn as he turns to Peeta.

 

“But who’s going to help Dad with the baking?”

 

Peeta chuckles and reaches over to ruffle his hair good-naturedly. “It’s all right, I’ll manage,” he says. “And besides, if I go with you, I’ll just scare off all the wildlife.”

 

We exchange grins and I mouth, _I love you_ before I step out into the cool, spring air with my brand new hunting partner.

 

* * *

 

It’s just after noon by the time we reach the woods, a little late to be getting started, but both of us are tingling with excitement. My daughter moves with surprising grace and swiftness, gliding across the forest floor with hardly a sound, despite Peeta’s earlier teasing that he hoped she hadn’t inherited his heavy footfall. We find a spot that conceals us well but gives us a good view of any nearby movement, and she stands close by my side, bow gripped in her hand, watching me nervously and waiting for my instruction.

 

I smile at her. “Hey… you all right?”

 

She shrugs. The leather of her jacket creaks again.

 

“What if I’m no good at this?”

 

“You want to hear a confession?” I say. “I wasn’t any good at first. Actually, I was pretty dreadful. But your grandfather was patient and I got the hang of it soon enough.”

 

I tap her arm to get her to raise it. She does it—albeit tentatively—her eyes on me the entire time, as though looking for my approval, some sort of reassurance that she’s doing this right.

 

“That’s it… Hold this arm out really straight. Try not to lock your elbow.”

 

“Like this?”

 

“Perfect.” I hold my hand under her arm to steady it, then I point at a squirrel that’s scurried out from a bush and is sniffing around at the ground. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Ok, now set up your arrow, that’s it… Now aim the tip at that squirrel, you see it?”

 

She nods.

 

“Good… that’s good… Now, pull this arm back… Ok, on the count of three, ready? One… two… three!”

 

She releases the string, and the force of it takes her a little by surprise, knocking her slightly off-balance, but I’m able to catch her in time.

 

“I’ve got you…”

 

The arrow sails in the air in a smooth arc, but lands a few inches off the target, bouncing off the surface of a rock, and the squirrel, suddenly aware of the presence of humans, scampers away, disappearing into a hollow trunk. My daughter’s arms fall to her side, shoulders slumping forward.

 

“It’s ok,” I say. “That was the first try, it just takes a bit of practice.”

 

She gives me a smile, but I can tell she’s disappointed. Still, she listens to me as I instruct her to raise her arms again and pull back the string, new arrow loaded. This time, I have her aim at a knot on a tree, to work on her vision. She’s able to hit the center of it perfectly, and she turns to me, eyes alight with excitement.

 

“I did it!”

 

“You sure did…”

 

She shoots a few more arrows at the knot, managing to hit the center the next five out of seven times. When she’s shot the last arrow in her quiver, we walk over to the tree to retrieve them, and I feel the mood shift when she grows quiet all of a sudden. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as we place the arrows back into the quiver one by one, knowing there’s something that’s weighing on her.

 

Finally, she says softly, “Mom… can I ask you something?”

 

“Of course.”

 

She fingers the feathers on one of the arrows. It hasn’t escaped my attention that she’s avoiding my eyes.

 

“What was it like?”

 

I feel my heart slide into my throat. I know, before she even finishes the rest of the question, what she’s asking me.

 

“Killing someone,” she says. “Was it… was it like… killing an animal?”  

 

I wait a few seconds before I respond. All the breath has gone out of me, and with it, all power of speech. All the words I’m capable of. Then slowly, I take in a long drag of air and I look up at her to answer.

 

“No,” I say. “It’s… a thousand times more terrible. And it never leaves you. Ever.”

 

She’s quiet for a long time, then she says, “I would have had to do it, wouldn’t I? If they had sent me into the Hunger Games?”

 

There’s a deep-rooted reflex in me that shoots panic in my bloodstream at her words. A terror I’ve nursed somewhere inside since I first learned I was pregnant with her, a fear that’s never really left me, that I’ve never truly been able to conquer, but can only keep buried within so I can function day to day and not scare my children with the nightmare that continues to haunt me.

 

I could lie right now. I could tell her something that wouldn’t bring out that same fear in her. But I promised myself a long time ago I wouldn’t lie to my children. Not about this.

 

“Yes.”

 

She takes a deep breath and looks down at the bow again, then quietly says, “I’m glad there are no more Hunger Games.”

 

“So am I.”

 

She’s about to say something else, when both of us hear rustling nearby. I turn my head in the direction of a sound, and my breath hitches in my throat when I see that it’s a deer that’s made its way to the small creek just up ahead.

 

I catch my daughter’s eye. She’s looking at me tentatively, but I smile and give her a nod, tapping her arm to get her to raise her weapon.

 

“Mom, I’m not… I’m not ready…”

 

“Yes, you are,” I say, giving her a smile. This is hers, and hers alone. “I’m right here, just listen to what I tell you, ok?”

 

She nods, but looks tentative. Slowly, she brings her arm up and squints her eyes to focus on the deer. It’s bent its head down, lapping at the water. Now is the moment. I give her a nod and gesture for her to pull back with all of her strength and release the arrow.

 

It darts straight across and hits its target perfectly, and the deer stills its movement, then falls to the ground.

 

* * *

 

“No quail after all, little goose,” I tell the boy. “But we’ll have plenty of venison.”

 

“Are you sure she really hit it?” he says, still incredulous that his sister could have brought down the deer all by herself. “It wasn’t really you?”

 

Peeta and I laugh, and our son looks back and forth between the two of us, looking bewildered, but our daughter merely takes it all in stride, plopping down at the kitchen table and laying her bow and quiver down on the chair next to her.

 

“Fine, don’t believe me. But let’s just see how you do on your first try.”

 

“All right, I think that’s the cue to get cleaned up for dinner,” Peeta says, stepping in gracefully before the two siblings can erupt into a full-blown squabble. When our son opens his mouth to protest, Peeta interrupts him to say, “And use soap this time. No rinsing off with just water.”

 

His sister fights a snicker as he heads up the stairs with great reluctance. She catches my eye a few seconds later and gives me a smile, then walks over to me.

 

“I had a great time out there today, Mom,” she says.  “Thank you for taking me.”

 

I reach over to cup her chin. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

 

“Me too.”

 

She comes forward to loop her arms around my neck. She’s almost to my height now, able to rest her chin on my shoulder, and as she leans her cheek against my pulse point, I can’t help but marvel at how quickly the time has gone by, how the little being I’d held in my arms is now almost a young woman. How in just a few years, she’ll grow into an adult, whose life will be full of possibilities and a thousand different paths for her to take.

 

How she won’t have to live in the paralyzing fear I had to grow up in, of wondering whether there would even be a future beyond the next year’s reaping.

 

I feel Peeta’s hand squeeze my shoulder in the next moment, and I reach up to take it, thread my fingers through his. I look up at him, catching his smile. And he mouths the words that come to me in that same moment.

 

_There are no more Hunger Games._


End file.
